The Center, Unheld
by blc
Summary: Booth lets go of the center. Angst, drama. Possible B/B. T for language. Disclaimer: All characters property of Fox & producers.
1. Chapter 1

"You're jumping to conclusions that aren't supported by the evidence!"

"You're dragging your feet on finding me evidence because you don't think the suspect did it!"

"You're the one with the irrational prejudice against the suspect, I am merely reserving judgment!"

"Irrational prejudice! The guy has a rap sheet eight miles long!"

"And none of that proves he murdered this little girl, in this case! There's nothing linking him to her except the eyewitness statement of a crack addict!"

"Face it Bones, you just don't want to handle this case because it's too close for comfort. Cool, objective Temperance Brennan identifies a little too closely with the foster care victim, and rather than man up enough to solve the case, she backs off like a coward, and leaves a little girl lying on a table for almost a week without any hope of going home to people who love her. Trust me, if I could get another forensic anthropologist within 500 miles to work this one, I would, but let's see, oh! That's right! The only other one around here's in _jail_, and it's not like he'd be much help anyway, he's just as cold and as cowardly as you are!"

She froze, her whole body turning as unyielding as ice, looking at him not with shock, but with hate. We were all waiting for her to slug him, or slap him, or something, but all she said was, "Get out."

"No, I won't, not until you get me some goddamned evidence!" He was seething, seemingly unaware of what he'd just said in his agitation to move the case forward.

She stood there, still, and simply repeated, quietly, icily, "Get out."

He stopped, then, and looked at her, something shifting in his face. "Look, Bones..."

"Do _not_ call me that name. My name is Dr. Brennan, and if you do not get off this platform by the time I am done counting to five, I will take your gun from you and shoot you through your black fucking heart. Get out, and do not show your face here ever again."

"Bones..."

"Five," she said, muscles coiling in her legs, right hand twitching ever so slightly. I had no doubt she could take him.

"Temperance..."

"Four," she said, cold and even.

"I'm sorry, look..."

"Three..."

Well, I didn't want her to shoot him, so I'd better say something. "Seeley, I agree with Dr. Brennan. Get the hell off this platform. I'll call you when we come up with results." I never thought I'd take her side against his, but he had stepped over the line. She wasn't to blame for what had happened to Zack-- none of us were, and for him to use that against her? I was shocked. His head snapped to look at me, then took in the fact that all had fallen silent, Jack and Angela's expressions as closed and as angry as I'm sure mine was.

"Get off our platform, Agent Booth. And leave your security card at the desk. It won't work if you try to come back here."

"Two..." He looked back at her, and there it was. He realized he'd just told his partner of four years that she was no better than poor mixed-up Zack.

"You'd better go," said Angela. "Because I'm next in line when she's done with you."

I was both satisfied and heartbroken when he turned and walked off the platform. I'd hoped we'd all make it through this, though I'd worried that something would cause us to break. I never thought it would be because of something he'd said. I thought he was going to be the glue that held us together.

As the door closed behind him, she quietly said, "Thank you, Camille."

"You're welcome, Temperance. Now, what can I do to help wrap this one up?"

- - -

"Booth! What the fuck did you do!"

Cullen was sitting behind my desk when I got back to the office, though I'd been sorely tempted to just pull over to the side of the road and shoot myself to put us all out of my misery. He was holding out a piece of paper, and his blood was boiling. I took the paper, and read.

"_D.D. Cullen: Please be advised that with the exception of the one case still open involving Special Agent Seeley Booth as the F.B.I.'s representative, the Medico-Legal Lab of the Jeffersonian Institute will no longer accept Agent Booth as F.B.I. Liaison. I have so informed the Jeffersonian's Board of Directors, and they are in accord with this decision, in light of Agent Booth's gross disregard of professional etiquette, and his profound disrespect for the scientific process required to validate our findings. The Jeffersonian will work toward the quick resolution of the outstanding case, but I must inform you that all communications between the Lab and the current Liaison will take place only between myself and Agent Booth, by telephone or email. Agent Booth's security privileges have been revoked. Please contact me to discuss the appointment of a new liaison, and the conditions upon which the Lab will agree to continue providing services to the F.B.I. Dr. C. Saroyan_."

I reread it again. That was it. I'd done it. Thrown four years of hard work, friendship, and love right out the window because I was too impatient to give her the extra hour she said she needed before I could file some damned paperwork. I may as well have stabbed her right in the heart with the damned knife Zack had used.

"I'm waiting."

I looked up at him, he clearly waiting for a good explanation. There wasn't one.

"There's no good explanation. Just, I fucked it all up to hell, Sam."

I shook his head. "I don't really care what you did. Just fix it."

"I don't know if I can."

He narrowed his eyes. "Well, you've got a week, at which point I'll expect a full explanation from you about what the hell you were thinking, telling Dr. Brennan what you did, and how you've fixed it, or plan to. Either that, or start packing for Austin, because that's the only other SA with enough scientific know-how for me to assign as their liaison, and I'm not paying him mileage from Texas."

I'd promised to never leave her, to never betray her-- I'd made that promise here, in my office. I'd promised, but by my actions, I'd left her, betrayed her, used all my knowledge of her heart against her. I had no idea how I could fix this.


	2. Chapter 2

I checked the peephole, and wasn't surprised to see him standing there

I checked the peephole, and wasn't surprised to see him standing there. I debated about stepping outside, letting him in, or just ignoring it-- I was still furious from earlier today. We'd made a break in the case, well, she'd made a break in the case, as she usually did, just within the hour she'd originally asked for, and I'd emailed him the information immediately, assuming he'd at least get this wrapped up out of duty. As soon as she'd approved the wording of the report to be sent, though, she'd shed her coat, gone back to her office, closed the door for an utterly silent twenty minutes, and then emerged, red-eyed, with her things, all in silence, merely lifting a hand to acknowledge us as she walked out the door. I've never seen her leave early. Ever. And I've never seen evidence of her crying. Ever.

Deciding, I opened the door, stood aside, let him in. He went straight to the living room, looking like hell. Good. She looked worse.

"I know you're not here in your official capacity, and I only said you should not come back to the lab, which are the only reasons I haven't called the cops for trespassing."

He flinched, blanched. Good.

"Camille..." He was lost for words. Well, he was the one who'd had too many words, earlier. He'd just have to find them. I stayed silent, taking the chair opposite him, and waited, just taking in his appearance. He'd bitten his nails to the quick, something I'd only seen once before, when he'd had to go undercover at a casino as a card dealer. His knuckles were bruised, not so much as if he'd hit something solid and unmoving, but as if he'd repeatedly struck flesh, or a punching bag, barehanded. His suit was disheveled, his hair a straight mess, rather than the intentional mussing he spent too much time in the mirror arranging each morning.

"I didn't mean it," he began.

"I know you didn't. We all do. But that you said it anyway? It's worse than if you had meant it." It was. I couldn't pretend to understand the relationship the two of them had, and one of the reasons I hadn't protested when he'd broken things off was the clear realization that while they might not be in love with each other, there was little room in their hearts for anyone else. They cared about others, but devotion? That was different, and there wasn't another word to better describe them, physical relationship or not. He clearly knew things about her that she'd never told anyone, perhaps not even herself, and I knew he'd told her things I only knew from reading his security file-- details I'd never know, that he'd never share. There'd been no point in being jealous-- I know an immovable object when I see it. Or I thought I had, until he'd, through mere words alone, done what I would have bet no outside force could do. Well, implosions are always more destructive.

He was shaking his head, again lost for words. Well, I could let him be mute all night, or get things moving again. "Seeley-- you broke something in there today. Jack, or Angela, or I might even forgive you at some point. But her? You know all too well that he may be as much of a son as she'll ever have, and you basically told her it was her fault that he did what he did. You know it wasn't. It was no one's fault."

"What did she say?"

I told him the truth. "Nothing. The two of us examined the remains some more before she found the needlestick mark on the bone, the third time she ran her fingers over it with her eyes closed. I swabbed it for DNA, found the suspect match, wrote it up, she approved the wording, and then she went back in her office to cry for twenty minutes. And then she left for the day. She didn't say anything."

He looked like I kicked him, and I might as well have. Jack and Angela had flinched as much as I had when she emerged, face paper-white, eyes and nose red, mouth set in a line.

"I told her I'd never betray her."

"Well, Seeley, it's too late for that. You don't throw someone's deepest secrets and fears in their face, accuse the one person as fearless and as passionate as you are of coldness and cowardice, and expect them to get over it lightly. Or at all."

"I should go see her."

"No, you shouldn't." He looked up at me, surprised by my vehemence. "Seeley, you have a bad habit of letting your temper get the best of you at the worst possible moments, and then, because you're at heart a good man, and yet, also an arrogant one, you assume you'll be forgiven if you just apologize enough, show up on someone's doorstep looking sorry enough. That's not going to work this time. If you show up at her house, or use the key you probably have, or even worse, pick that lock? I think no jury in the land would convict her of battery."

"But... I already got him in, he confessed, and he gave us the name of the dealer who supplied him with the overdose, the needles. Does she know that? Doesn't it help?"

"Well, it's good that you got him, but I'm not about to change my mind. Not unless she tells me to."

He looked mulish, then. "I thought you were my friend."

"Don't be a child. I am your friend, but I am also in charge of a preeminent laboratory whose experts deserve nothing but the best, most respectful treatment, including myself. I am telling you the truth, which is as much friendship as I think you deserve. More. I seriously considered not letting you in here."

His shoulders sagged, then. "What should I do, Camille? Please?"

He'd never asked me for help, ever, the whole time I'd known him. He'd worked his way through a short gambling relapse after that undercover operation alone, gone missing one weekend, then back to work and no humor about him the next. He'd been shot, stabbed, one time nearly hamstrung during a knife fight, but had always soldiered on. And now, he was asking for help.

"I don't know. But I'll think about it, okay?" He nodded, swallowing hard, then rose.

"Thank you. I'm sorry I disturbed you." He turned and walked down the hallway and let himself out, and as I watched him, I realized he'd broken himself as much as he'd broken her. Their shoulders were clenched the same way, postures equally defeated. I'd better think hard, and fast.

- - -

"Temperance Brennan."

"Dr. Brennan, it's Sam Cullen." Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that he's calling. Probably to tell me it's Booth or nothing-- he really hates me, he'll probably be glad to be rid of me, or to dispense with the lab's services altogether.

"Hello, sir." Since I wasn't sure what he wanted to say, I judged it best to keep silent.

"Dr. Brennan, I wanted to call to ... apologize. I am extremely sorry for what happened this afternoon, and I want to assure you that the Bureau has nothing but the highest respect for you and your colleagues, the excellent work that you do. Thanks to your findings this afternoon, we were able to get a confession and the name of the drug supplier from the suspect. We're hoping to collar the dealer tonight or tomorrow. Your efforts are greatly appreciated." We. I wonder what "we" meant. Did Booth bring him in? Did someone else?

"Thank you, sir. I'm glad to hear that the suspect confessed. Confessions are cleaner than court, I know." And they make it unnecessary for me to have to be in the same room of him, even a courtroom, six months down the road.

"Look ... Doctor, I don't mean to ... invade your privacy, but I think you should know that Booth was ... horrified ... by his actions, and that he fully intends to repair things."

"Sir, I appreciate your concern, but ... there are some things that can't be repaired. I understand from Doctor Saroyan that you and she have discussed alternate means of providing the lab's assistance on cases, and for my own part, I'll be shifting time spent in the field previously to other areas of efforts. I've left my work for the State Department aside for too long." It was true. I once worked recoveries for State and the United Nations several times a year, travelling to remote sites for several weeks at a time to assist International Court prosecutors with the initial assessments of genocide and mass murder cases. I'd had to cut back my trips to one a year, and though the work was not as directly fulfilling, it was important, nonetheless. And working with someone closely as I had with Booth was what had led to this impasse in any event. Letting someone in? Not going to happen again. I tried it. I failed-- I'm incapable of expressing myself so people understand me, despite how much I tried. For him. I've learned my lesson, now. I'm better off solo. I'm incapable of partnering anything but dried bones and paper.

"Well, Doctor, I'm sorry to hear that, but perhaps you'll reconsider once we've had time to work things through a bit more." What? He wanted me to stay in the field?

"I'm sorry, Director. You once made it clear that you preferred your squints in the lab." He inhaled. Oh, that was a bit harsh, I suppose, since he was trying to apologize to me, but still, he had said it to my face. Tactful, Temperance. No wonder he thinks you're cold.

"Well, I owe you another apology, then. The cases in which you participate in field investigation close more quickly, and more successfully, than any others in which forensic assistance is involved. If you'd like to remain in the field once ... things settle down, then you're welcome to."

"Thank you sir. I'll think about it." I won't. I've made up my mind. No more FBI agents for me, no more "partners." I would do my work, and they could figure out how to use it on their own. They want field assistance? They can take Clark, he's starting next week.

"Well, I'll let you go then. Again, I am sorry."

"I appreciate it, Sir. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

I looked down at the phone after I hung up, and sighed, willing myself not to cry again. I'd already done crying, I'd emptied myself of my anger, my disbelief at his betrayal, because he hadn't really betrayed me. I could have worked faster. He was right. He always was. The only anger left was at myself, for failing to connect with the people I cared about, for failing to save them. For failing to save Zack. For failing to work hard enough, fast enough, well enough. I'd save all my attempts to connect for the dead; their empty sockets and silent mouths wouldn't accuse me when I failed them, too. And if I went back to working with State and the U.N., I'd at least have the chance to be put out of my misery by rampant guerillas or inside saboteurs. Better than waking up every day to more failure.


	3. Chapter 3

- - -

There was a note under the windshield of my car the next morning, his writing, "Temperance," on the outside. My hands shook as I removed it and put it in my purse. I wouldn't open it. Not now. I had a workday to get through. I had to finish my paperwork to give to Camille so that this was over, and I could move on to the next thing, call my old contacts at State, arrange for a trip to somewhere where I wouldn't be reminded of failure.

I'd put away all the tokens he'd given me, Jasper and Brainy, the lid from the first coffee he'd brought me, when I got home last night, in the box with my family photos, my list of foster homes, the note that I'd written him when I was stuck with Jack in that car. Re-reading it, I'd been reminded all over again of my stuntedness. "_Booth_," I had written. "_I know you did everything that you could. I'm sorry we couldn't hold out longer. Don't blame yourself. Temperance, Bones_." Nothing to thank him for his friendship, for his efforts to be there for me when I'd found my mother. Nothing to admit that he'd made me happier than any friend I'd had in my life. And I'd done nothing but continue the trend, continued to fail to say what I meant, continued to live as though expressing myself like a robot was sufficient. I had finally pushed him too far, and it was my fault. I'd read the note later today, then put it in the box and bury it, or get rid of it, like I'd already planned to, the box heavy in my hands. All past attempts to revisit, to re-feel? I'd proven my own hypothesis, that I was incapable of deserving emotion. There was no need to keep re-visiting the truth, now that it was incontrovertible.

- - -

"Good morning, Dr. Brennan," I said, as she entered the lab. She looked up, startled. She looked worse than she had yesterday, her face drawn, her eyes sunken. All her cool composure was gone, and her expression was shocking-- pure, sad, resignation. But resignation to what? He was the one who had acted unforgivably.

"Good morning, Dr. Saroyan," she replied, quietly. "I understand that the case from yesterday requires no further involvement on our part?"

I nodded.

"I'll complete my paperwork and provide it to you so that you can move things forward."

"Thank you." She nodded, and headed off to her office.

Thirty minutes later, she knocked at my door, handing me the paperwork, silently.

"Thank you."

She paused. "You're aware that... before I began ... field work, I contracted with the State Department and other government entities on International Court of Justice cases, correct?"

Where was this going? "Yes, I was."

"I plan on advising them that I am free to offer my services to assist them again, once Dr. Edison's settled in here at the lab. He can assist with ... local ... field work." What? She was retiring from F.B.I. field work?

"I appreciate your letting me know." I mean, what, was I going to say, no? She's the top FA in the country, perhaps in the world. I'd take whatever time she would give me. If she wanted to spend time in hellholes, I couldn't really stop her.

"Well, thank you. I'll keep you apprised. Now, if you don't mind, I've an appointment I'll be gone for a few hours on, but I'll be available by phone."

Leaving the lab again? I could hardly protest, she was ahead on her limbo quota, but leaving the lab, early, twice in two days? Something was seriously wrong. I said nothing, just nodded, and then she was gone.

I picked up my phone and dialed. "Angela?"

She picked up her cell phone. "Cam, I'm just in the parking lot."

"Well, don't come in, yet. Listen..."

- - -

I was plowing my way through paperwork the next afternoon, hiding in my office like the coward I was. We hadn't been able to find that dealer yet, he must have heard about the collar, and Narcotics' contacts had no new information to say where he might have gone. So I'd been plowing through policy manual revisions and employee appraisals and other meaningless paperwork I wouldn't need my brain for, rather than do the hard work of thinking how I could ever repair things with Bones. I'd stayed up all night, writing draft after draft of my attempt at an apology, my request that she let me speak with her in person, but I didn't expect she would even read it, much less contact me afterward.

I heard hard, quick steps coming toward my office and looked up in time to see Angela, a look of fury on her face like I'd never seen, storming toward me. She came right in, slammed the door, and pushed a dirty shoebox across my desk at me, the lid coming off as it slid toward me. The shoebox. The one with her family photos. Her list of foster homes. Wait, Brainy and Jasper? What's that coffee lid? There was my note. And another piece of paper, folded, with my name on the front-- one I'd never seen before.

"Do you know what she did?"

I looked up at her, speechless.

"She came in to work for a half hour this morning. A half hour! Wrote her last report on that damned case, then left for the day. I was just getting in, and Cam called me to tell her something was wrong, so I followed her. She... went to her mother's grave ... and sat there, read your note, and then cried, for _two hours_. And then she left this there. She _buried_ it, Booth. Do you know what that note is?" She reached in and shook the one I'd never seen before in my face. "She wrote you that, when she and Jack thought they would die. She wrote it to you... not me, not her brother. To _you_. You were the last person she thought of when it came to saying goodbye. She buried her heart. _You_ made her bury her heart. If you don't fix this, I will kill you."

I believed her. I would kill me, too. I'd hoped she would be furious at me, but a part of me knew exactly how too far I'd gone. I hadn't made her angry. I had made her think she was cold, she was cowardly, when it was so far from the truth that I was surprised I hadn't already been smitten by lightning for telling the worst lie of my life.

"I'll try," I said, replacing the lid and finding a rubber band to put around it. "I'll try, Angela."

I got up to look at her, and she nodded. "Try hard. Because if you fail, I will make you pay." And then she was gone, a wake of anger following her as she stalked back out of the office.

Just then, my phone rang, Narcotics' main line.

"Ronnie. What have you got?"

"Look, someone reported seeing him near M and 12th Streets, Northwest, but they lost him. He looked pissed." That was near her place.

"I've got to go. Call me if you learn more." I was going to be too late. I knew it. Angela wouldn't need to make me pay. I'd take care of it myself.

- - -

I pulled up in front of her building, cut the lights, and threw the car into park. The front entryway looked fine, but that didn't mean anything. People routinely buzzed in strangers all the time, they'd done it for me before she'd given me a key. I took the stairs closest her door, hoping I could hear something in the hallway adjoining her wall. It was quiet, and I pulled open the door to the corridor quietly, weapon in hand.

Her door was shattered open, and a whiff of gunpowder, acrid and dense, still lingered in the air. Why hadn't anyone come to see what the noise was? Why was I the first one here?

"Bones! Temperance!" No response.

I entered, but it was already over. He was dead, with a bullet between his eyes, the .45 slug visible through the entry wound. There was a .22 on the floor, fallen out of his hand. Where was she?

"Temperance?"

As I rounded the couch, I found her, unconscious, fingers still clutched around her weapon, a pool of blood under her shoulder where she'd been hit. The same place Pam Nunan had shot me.

I dialed 911 even as I bent to press my hand over the wound, stop the bleeding, because she was still alive, the blood still seeping, staining her shirt and the floor beneath her.

"I need an ambulance..." I began, my voice cool and detailed as I told them where to come, as the silent voice in my head shouted "It's too late, it's your fault, it's too late" over and over again.


	4. Chapter 4

The EMTs and the D

The EMTs and the D.C. cops came almost instantly, the EMTs loading her up and out as quick as any I'd seen before. I somehow managed to recall her blood type and some other information. After ordering the cops to hold the scene until I could get someone out here, I followed them down, at which point I got the shock of my life.

"Agent Booth-- you're her health care proxy. Will you ride with us, or meet us there?" What? Not Russ? Not Angela?

"I'll meet you there, I need to radio in."

I ran to the truck to get in, intending to ambulance surf all the way. I'd probably hit something if I tried to go on my own.

"22705."

"Dispatch."

"Tell Ronnie to send a team to Dr. Brennan's apartment with a bag and Evidence. Suspect is eliminated, Dr. Brennan is wounded. D.C.P.D. holding scene."

"Destination?"

"Georgetown Medical."

"Over."

That was the easy part. Now came the hard part. I picked up the phone, and dialed.

"Angela."

"What?"

"The dealer from yesterday... he was already there. She's going to Georgetown right now."

She hung up on me without any response.

- - -

When Angela arrived, Jack in tow, their faces unreadable, it had been only ten minutes since they'd taken her to surgery. Angela pulled up short when she saw me-- my hands and clothes were covered in blood from trying to keep the wound closed-- then resumed heading toward me.

"How?" Was the only word she bit out at me.

"I got a call right after you left that he'd been spotted in her area-- I left right away, but by the time I got there, it was already over. She'd killed him, and he'd ... wounded her."

"Where is she now?"

"Surgery."

Her eyes narrowed, Jack's face impassive. "You can leave now. We'll wait."

"Angela ... I can't."

"You won't, you mean!" She was shouting. "You lost any right to her yesterday! Now get out of here!"

"No... Angela, I can't... she made me her health care proxy. I have to wait, at least until Russ and Max get here, they'll want two family members before they... and... I can't reach either of them, I tried. I have to stay."

She slapped me then, hard. "That's her blood on your hands, and I hope it never, _ever_ washes off. This is _your_ fault. She'd be safe if you'd just kept your mouth shut."

I didn't argue with her. I just met her eyes and responded. "I know."

- - -

At some point, one of the nurses came over. "Sir?"

I looked up—I'd been counting floor tiles.

"She'll be out of surgery soon, but you've got to wash your hands before they let you in to see her. There's a washroom two doors down. The doctors will come out when they've sent her up to recovery."

I nodded and went down the hall, half in a daze as I watched the now brown and maroon blood swirl, sickly pink with soap, down the drain. I'd had my friends' blood on my hands before, when they'd been shot, or otherwise wounded, and I'd had the blood of enemies on my hands too, sometimes so much that I'd wake up from dreams of drowning in it, but until now, I'd escaped something like this. I'd never had the blood of a partner? A best friend? A what? A loved one? To wash off- especially when it was my fault.

Would this be different if I had at some of the many, many, chances I'd had to do so, actually told her how I felt—if I'd gotten rid of the stupid line I'd drawn and that I pretty much ignored a hundred times a day anyway? Professional partners do not use their keys to their partners' apartments to stock their fridges when they're coming back for a book tour—or to sneak in to their apartments after they've both been shot at and escaped, just to check to make sure she's sleeping, and breathing. They don't lie about their insatiable need to touch their partner all the time, calling it a 'guy hug' when really, you just can't breathe deeply unless you can feel her heart beat and her chest rise against yours, while you inhale the smell of her, like lemons and honey and spice. Partners don't stare at each other when the other one's engrossed in their work, memorizing the curves of their body. If I'd told her, what would be different?

If she said she didn't feel the same way? Well, I never could figure out what I'd do if she said that. Transfer? Let go of the steering wheel into oncoming traffic? Pretend like nothing had happened, apologize, and go back to the way things were unless she wouldn't let it? If she did? Maybe I wouldn't have been so damned frustrated, would have been more patient, and kept my mouth shut—or been living with her, or had a right to be in her apartment for other than work things, and would have been there when he arrived?

I don't know. All I know is that this? This was avoidable, and even though the physical evidence of my failure was gone, Angela was right when she said the real stain wouldn't wash off.

- - -

"Ange, baby, don't you think you're being too hard on him?"

She looked at me, shocked, as I watched him walk toward the washroom.

"How can you say that? It's his fault!"

"Is it, really? Because they've been shot at lots of times before when they've been working cases, and they've had people go after them separately, too. How do you know this wouldn't have happened if they hadn't had that fight?"

"She wouldn't have been alone."

"You know that's not necessarily true." She shook her head, looking down at the floor instead of me. "Angie, they're adults, with separate lives, and no matter what happened yesterday, they're not together 24-7. There's just no way to know that this wouldn't have happened anyway."

In a small voice, she said, "If they were together, it might not have happened."

"Ange." She finally turned and looked at me. "We're together, but don't you do things separately from me?"

She nodded, eyes full of tears. "Then even if they were together it still could have happened. And you and I have fights all the time—you stayed at Dr. B's place last month, remember?"

She clenched her jaw, and then nodded again. "That doesn't change what happened yesterday, though."

I sighed. "No, it doesn't. But look at him, Ange. It's not like he doesn't know what he did. He's going to do what he can to fix it, and we all know Booth's a very capable guy."

"Can you forgive him, though?"

"I already have." She jerked, her eyes widening in shock. "Watch him when he comes back in the room, Angela. He's not just guilty—he's heartbroken. My staying angry at him serves no purpose. And we all say horrible things to each other every once in a while—I'm not going to hold him to some impossible standard. He's just a man, Ange, not some superhero."

She leant into my shoulder then, sighing, so I shifted and put my arm around her. Poor Angela. Poor Dr. B. Poor all of us.

- - -

I'd just re-entered the waiting room when the surgeon appeared. "Agent Booth," he began.

"How is she?"

"She's stable. She's in recovery, you can head up in a moment. We removed the bullet—but it fractured her scapula and we've had to put in a small plate. It should heal well, it was fairly uncomplicated. She lost a fair amount of blood, as you know, and it will be a few days before we're willing to discharge her, but there seem to be no other complications at this time. I'll send a nurse down to bring you upstairs?"

"Please. There are, uh, some other folks here who would like to see her too…"

The doctor shook his head. "I'm sorry, not until she's in her own room. The recovery area is only semi-private, we just can't have too many people up there. She'll be out of recovery in an hour or two."

"Thank you." He nodded and walked off, so I turned to Hodgins and Angela, who'd been sitting, listening.

"I'll … uh … come down as soon as they take her up to get you. I still haven't heard back from Max or Russ, I'll try them again so I can …"

Jack shook his head. "No, I mean, they should come, but that doesn't mean you should leave."

What? Angela made clear I wasn't welcome as soon as she was out of the woods, and no surprise.

I just stood there, dumbstruck, when Jack moved his arm from around Angela's shoulder, and stood up to grasp me by the arm, and look me in the eye.

"It could have happened any time, not just because of what happened yesterday." Oh, God. I break her heart and everyone else's and she gets shot and he's _forgiving_ me? I just can't have this conversation right now.

"Thanks, Jack." Not, I believe you, or you're right, because I don't think you are, but at least I can thank him for being so blind to what a bastard I am that he's willing to be nice to me. But further words were beyond me, and I had to get upstairs, the nurse had just come in.

"I'll … be back later." He nodded, squeezed my arm again, and let go. I had to get upstairs, had to see her, had to know.

- - -

"He didn't believe you." Ange's voice was cracked and low, more tears pooling in her eyes as we watched him leave the room, moving like an old man when he didn't think he was being watched.

"I know. I'll just have to keep saying it until he believes it."

- - -


	5. Chapter 5

My first awareness was of pain-- burning pain in my shoulder, the radiation of a puncture or incision, and the deep ache of osteologial damage. Next was the heavy, nauseous feeling of anaesthetic. I could feel a nasal canula running into my throat, my mouth foul-tasting and dry. There was a catheter, a pulse oximeter on one finger. My hand and arm were immobilized, probably strapped to my waist so I wouldn't disturb the shoulder.

Hospital, then. I hadn't died. I couldn't think further than that. I would focus instead on what was present. Pain. Cold. Heavy limbs. Nausea. Overhead lights too bright, even through cold lids. A heart heavy with... no.

There was a weight, warm, at my side, but no pain. Had I been hit more than once? Hit in the side and the anaesthesia had yet to wear off? I didn't recall a second shot. Cautiously, I opened my eyes. A brown... his brown... head was resting, forehead against my stomach, sitting forward, hands clasped as if he were praying. For me? Why? He'd made it clear that I'd pushed him too far. Why was he here? Oh. I'd made him my health care proxy, and typically, I hadn't told him, just expected he'd do it. He had, since he was here. Damnit. Yet again, I'd just taken from him, with no please, no thank you, just greed and selfishness. And now he was here, and probably feeling guilty on top of everything else, though it was as likely the dealer would have come after whomever he'd caught first. I just happened to be home. Better me than him. He had people who needed him.

Oh, God. I can't handle this. I hurt, and I can't look at him, and if I tell him to go he won't, out of duty, and it's way past too late to tell him I don't want duty from him, even if I don't know what to label what I want. What do I want? I want a guy hug, and coffee in the mornings, and to see what's under his shirts and his pants, to not have to wait until I get into work to see his smile or hear his voice-- all the things I threw away because I'm incapable of returning all the things that I want. What is it I want? Love? I believe in it, now, but it's not a one sided thing, and I don't know how to love properly. I'd only hurt him, time and again.

I couldn't have moved to intercept the bullet someplace more final? I'd had time to aim and pull the trigger as he came in, him pulling his own after my trigger was already fully depressed. I should have had time, too, to compensate for his lousy aim, step further into it, let it hit the mark. I failed, again.

- - -

_God, please, I don't know what to ask for. Please, help her heal, her body, her heart. Please, don't let her come out of this more scarred, permanently wounded. Please let her listen to all of us when we tell her she's wonderful, worthy, and brave, all the things that she is. Please make it so I haven't caused that lost look in her eye that she had when Max and Russ drove away to take up permanent home in her eyes. Please, make her believe me when I tell her I'm wrong, that she's nothing like Zack, that there's nothing she could have done. Please, make her believe me when I tell her there are things he probably saw that make healing impossible, for him, and that even love won't heal some things. But please, please, please, make her one of those things love can heal. I'm not asking for me-- I'm asking for her, for all those who love her. Please_.

I shouldn't even be touching her, much less sitting here with my head on her stomach, trying to listen to her breathe, assure myself of her warmth. I've lost the right. But I had to, I'm too weak not to, seeing how drained and small she looks, how even on all the drugs she's hunched in pain. I don't know what I'm going to say when she wakes up. I can't possibly look her in the eye after what I've done, but I have to if I'm ever going to make her believe what's true. Her breathing's changing. Is she waking up? Is that a ... spasm? A sob?

Temperance, please. Don't cry, please.

- - -

I stopped at the sound of a choking noise just inside the curtain. They'd told me not to come up, but to hell with that-- I'd driven like a bat out of hell for three hours after I'd gotten his message, and I would see her if I wanted to. There was a rustle, and I heard him speak.

"Temperance, please. Don't cry, please."

I parted the curtain, not even an inch, not enough for even him to hear it. Tears were streaming down her face, her eyes screwed shut, silent sobs and shudders wracking her, as he sat at the edge of the bed, hand tentatively on her shoulder, urging her not to cry, but not doing the one thing she needed most, the one thing that would calm her-- even if what those two downstairs had told me was true, he was still the only one who could comfort her. She loved him too much not to believe him, to do as he asked, even after this-- or at least I knew that was how it had been between her mother and me. If he'd just keep telling her, she would be fine, get past it. And yet, here he was, holding back as if he no longer had neither the right nor the duty to touch her. I couldn't stand it any longer, so I parted the curtain and spoke from where I was standing, behind him.

"Hold her, you fool. Hold her, and don't let her go. I never took you for a coward."

His shoulders and back firmed, tensing, but he didn't take time to look back or respond to me-- just sat forward to gather her in tenderly, keeping guard of her shoulder, then pulling her to him until her face was buried in his shoulder. I waited until her good arm crept around his waist, to return the embrace, then stepped back and drew the curtain again.

Fool. But he was her fool, as I'd been my Christine's, and I'd better make sure it stayed that way.

- - -

I started toward her curtained-off area, then paused at the look the fierce older blonde man who'd just gone in to see her gave me on his way out. Something I shouldn't disturb? I'd just check to see if the agent was still with her before we moved her upstairs.

I heard muffled crying, a man's and a woman's, both of them saying "I'm sorry," and "it's alright," and "I didn't mean to hurt you" over and over again, their words interrupted by sobs and "please don't crys," again from both of them. I listened, a moment longer, as they both said "I love you" at the same time, and then there was silence. Silence, then followed by a different kind of tears-- tears of release, and not sorrow. I'd leave them to it, a bit longer, before coming back.

I returned to the front desk to speak to the orderly. "Come back in ten minutes, please? She's not quite ready to go yet."

He nodded. "Whatever you say, doctor."

I'd let them finish here before I disturbed them again. It is the recovery room, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

The curly-headed guy, what was his name, looked up as I came back into the room. "Max, how is she?"

I looked at the two of them, both sitting on the edge of their seats, looking distraught. Good. She deserves people who care about her. But something still wasn't sitting right about what I'd seen, upstairs. "I didn't talk to her, but she's awake. I think she'll probably be going up to her room soon. Now, tell me, precisely, who was it who told him that he had no right to be here, because from what I just saw, someone besides him has him thinking he's lower than dirt about all of this, when it's abundantly clear to me that my daughter goes throwing herself into danger even when she's feeling heart-whole."

Her girlfriend-- Andrea? Angela?-- flinched. Ah. Well, that was easy. She shot a guilty look at the other one-- from the way she hunched, he'd probably already spoken to her about it. I'd just add my own perspective.

"Look, Angela, I know you love her, and I'm glad she has someone so passionate defending her. But I'll tell you something you may not understand. I am a man of action, much like that man up there. I survive, and protect the people I love, because I think quickly, and act quickly, and do what's necessary to see the needed result through. And I make mistakes, because I'm so used to having to do everything quickly. I fall out of the habit of being more deliberate, more long-term in my planning. If she can forgive me for doing the unforgivable, you should let her make the same decision with him, though I don't necessarily think what he did is any worse than any other horrible fight loved ones may have. It's their decision, how they handle this. Don't try to affect how she thinks about it, or prevent him from thinking through, clearly, what he needs to do in order to mend things. Don't interfere. Listen, sympathize, and give them their space. You need to let her decision be what guides your reactions-- not the other way. He hurt _her_-- you're just bystanders, as much as it hurts you in the blowback."

She nodded, tears leaking down her face. Ah, damnit, I hate making women cry, but if she was the reason he looked like a kicked puppy up there, well, maybe it would slow her down in the future.

"I'm going to go outside and call my Russell. Leave word with the nurse where her room is if you're already gone up before I get back?"

"Will do, Max," said the bug guy. John? Jake? Jack. Jack.

"Thanks, Jack."

I was going to have to learn their names better, now that I was actually going to be around enough to see them from someplace other than the other side of a courtroom.

- - -

"I'll come up as soon as I can. I need to go let Jack and Angela and your father know you're moving, and make a call or two. But I'll be back, and you can always call my phone. Okay?"

She nodded, wiping her tear-streaked face again with her good hand, like Parker. It was some measure of how upset she still was that she'd forgotten her usual, almost-prissy manners.

"Bones," I said, pulling the tissue box over to rest in her lap, "here, please? Don't use your hand, you'll get all crusty and then you'll forget and run your hand through your hair, or even worse, touch me with all your squint cooties."

She smiled, then, a watery one, but at least it was a real smile. "Well, I can't possibly let myself be responsible for infecting you with squint cooties. I'm pretty sure it's in my contract-- thou shalt not infect agents with squintiness." She pulled out a tissue and scrubbed her face, blew her nose, wincing at the nasal canula.

"Atta girl, Bones."

"You'll be back?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Your father's here, he'd beat the crap out of me if I tried to leave, anyway." She snorted, again wincing at the tube in her throat. "Poor Bones," I said, coming over to stand next to her and smooth her hair back from her face. "Be right back." I leant down to press a kiss on her forehead, disbelieving the way she leaned into me as I did so. I didn't deserve her, and she told me she loved me? Good God.

_Don't let me fuck this up again_, I thought, as I opened the curtain to the waiting orderly.

- - -

When I got downstairs, Max was sitting a few chairs away from Angela and Jack, and Angela was sobbing into Jack's shoulder. Oh, God. I had a hard time dealing with Hurricane Angela even when she liked me-- mercurial didn't begin to describe her. Max and Jack both looked up, eyes clear, no look of recrimination on either of their faces. "She's going up to twelve, room 2B, they said they wanted about a half hour to get her settled in before they will allow visitors up there. She's okay."

Angela looked up at me then, eyes and nose red, and choked back a sob.

"Give it a rest, Angela," came Max's voice. What?

"I've got to make a call or two, I'll be outside."

"Take your time, son." Son?

- - -

"Cullen."

"Booth."

"Booth, what the hell happened?"

"Nothing but bad timing, bad tailing, and thank God, bad aim on his part. She's got a single bullet wound and a plate in her shoulder but is otherwise alright. They're keeping her a few days before they let her go home, to make up the blood loss."

"I saw the photos. She drilled him right between the eyes."

"That's Bones. If she does something, she does it right, the first time."

"Will you be in tomorrow?"

"Well, considering that Max hasn't come outside to shiv me yet, let's leave it as I'll be available by phone." He chuckled on the other end of the line. It wouldn't do to say it out loud, but the guys at the Bureau liked Max-- it was nothing by justice for an honest crook to take down a corrupt cop, and everyone had either hated or feared Kirby.

"Good. I would have hated to transfer you to Austin."

"Thanks." I hung up, shook my shoulders out. I was still wearing the clothes I'd had on when I'd found her, and the nurses weren't going to be patient with me if I kept wandering around in blood-soaked clothing. Plus, it would probably make Angela stop crying so much, if the gory reminder wasn't right in front of her. I went back to the truck and pulled out the duffel of extra changes of clothes I usually kept there, slung it over my shoulder, and headed back in.

- - -

"Bren! Oh my God, Bren!"

Angela burst into the room, in full-blown emotive Angela mode, Jack following behind her. Oh, God. If he hadn't been able to calm her down, this was going to be rough. I'm no good at dealing with her when I'm feeling well. Physically and emotionally battered? Forget it. Well, I had lots of painkillers in my system, maybe I'd fall asleep in the middle of whatever tirade she was going to launch into.

"Ange, I'm alright." She sat there, looking at my strapped-down shoulder and arm, and burst into tears.

"Bren, you might have died!"

"Of course. But I didn't. And I could get run over by a truck on my way out of here." She shook her head.

"But... if he hadn't upset you..." Oh, lord. She didn't seriously think this particular angle of things was Booth's fault, did she? As messed up as I am, emotionally, even I can see the lack of relationship between the events.

"Ange, if he hadn't come by my apartment, I would have bled out. That dealer would have come after either of us. He just happened to come after me, and I happened to be there for him to come after."

"But! You were upset! And normally you wouldn't be home in the middle of the afternoon! And you were upset because... he..."

"Angela. If I wasn't home, he would have come to find me at the lab, or waited for me at my apartment. He's been getting his gang to overdose runaway teen prostitutes who want to escape him for almost a year. He had no interest in getting caught. It had nothing to do with Booth." There. I'd said his name aloud, and she flinched like I'd slapped her. Alright, I had no patience for this. Time for a subject change.

"Jack, is my father around here someplace?"

He nodded. "Yes, he's out in the hall, waiting. He talked to Russ, but Hallie's sick and they can't come up right away." Well, that's alright. I'd be fine enough to go home in a few days, though field work was going to be out of the question while my shoulder healed. Probably a good thing-- it would give me time to deal with the way things had twisted, twice, in the last two days, in my dealings with Booth. I was pretty sure he was delusional about my emotional faculties, but he's better at this heart thing than I am, and even I can tell when he's not just talking from guilt. There was guilt, there, sure, but that wasn't what drove what he'd said to me, earlier, when we were in the recovery area.

"Bren?"

"Oh, sorry, Angela, I zoned out for a minute there." She blinked. What? Oh, I must have used the phrase correctly. It happens, sometimes.

"Where are you going to stay when you go home for the hospital?"

"I don't know, actually. I assume the crime lab will have my house cleared by the time I'm ready to leave, but I'll have to have the carpet replaced, and I'm not particularly eager to walk across my own bloodstains in the meantime."

Jack snorted, lightly. Good. At least someone'd maintained a faint sense of humor in all this.

"You could come stay with us?" Oh, Ange. Not if you're leaking tears like that every time that you look at me. I need peace and quiet.

"I'll think about it."

"Well, where else would you stay?"

"With Booth." Well, that came out unexpectedly, but I supposed it was true. He'd stop poking at me to talk, now that we'd preliminarily cleared the air, and he knew how to respect someone else's quiet-- something Angela, as much as I loved her, couldn't do.

She huffed when I said I might stay with him. "Even after what he said to you?"

"Ange, I am not having this discussion with you less than two hours after surgery. If you want to talk about it tomorrow, come back after lunchtime."

"But he called you cold!"

I leveled a stare at her. "Angela, if you don't recall correctly, you yourself have called me socially retarded on a number of occasions." She flinched. She'd hurt my feelings when she'd done so, but it hadn't hurt as much as what Booth had said. Why was that? She just didn't understand me as much as he did, I suppose. Poor Angela. If she had her way, I'd cut off Booth without a further word-- she tended to do that with people who angered her, moving on with ease to make new friends, at least until they angered her, when she'd move on again. I didn't make friends easily, like she did, though. I needed the ones that I had.

Jack patted her hand. "Angie, let's go home. Dr. B. will be here tomorrow, and you can talk to her then." I nodded, and offered her a tentative smile. She came forward then, eyes still streaming tears, and pulled me into a firm hug. A small groan escaped me as she squeezed me too hard, and she jumped back, alarmed, the movement of her letting go jerking me further. Shit, that hurt. My eyes were watering with the pain, which just caused her to wail and try to hug me again. I involuntarily backed into the bed, away from her, and Jack took her by the arm and led her away, mouthing "sorry," over his shoulder as he went.

- - -

My father entered the room as soon as they were gone, and sat at the edge of the bed, taking in my shoulder and all the IV lines. They still had me hooked up to more blood, and I wondered how much, precisely, I'd lost.

"Hi, Pumpkin."

"Hi, Dad."

"Your friend there's pretty upset."

"I know." I sighed, and shook my head, and he took my hand. "She's always been highly emotional, and things like this just make it worse. I just hope she calms down a bit before tomorrow."

He nodded, seriously. "Well, your friends are worried about you. You have lots of people who love you, you know."

"I know. I don't know why they do, but I know."

He paused, looking at me seriously. "You know, you're exhausted and your boy will be back up soon to keep you company, but I want to say something to you, and I want you to think about it. You are a wonderful girl, and you always have been. It broke both our hearts to leave you, but we did what we thought was best. We were wrong. We should have taken you with us, started over as many times as it took. We never should have left you-- we'd made it work before, we should have tried it again. Honey, it kills me to know that some part of you still thinks that you did something wrong, and that's why your mother and I left, rather than taking you with us. It just isn't the truth, and you've got to do what you can to try to believe me when I tell you that. Can you promise me you'll try?"

My throat closed over, so I just nodded as a tear slid down my cheek. "Oh, sweetie," he sighed, pulling my head to his chest, "honey, it's going to be alright."

"I hope so, Dad. I hope so." We sat for another few moments, and then he kissed the top of my head and let me go, standing up as he did. "I'm dead on my feet, I'm going to go get some sleep and I'll be back tomorrow, okay?"

I nodded. I wished he wouldn't go until Booth came back, but he always came and went as he pleased, and I wasn't going to argue with him. "Thanks, Daddy. See you tomorrow."

He blew me a kiss from the doorway and was gone-- like he always left, here one minute, gone the next.

- - -

I'd just come off the elevator with my things when Max rounded the corner.

"Boy," he said. Well, at least he hadn't broken my neck. Boy, I could put up with.

"Hi, Max."

"That waterfall of a friend of hers is gone. She was at her about you in there but I'll have you know my little girl stuck up for you."

I shook my head. I have no idea why, but thank God she did, at least maybe she'd listened, a little, to what I'd tried to make her believe. "Where are you off to, now?"

"Got to find a motel or something, I'm dead on my feet." He usually stayed at her place when he was in town, and I honestly had no idea what he did with his time, what he did for money. I know Bones probably tries to help him, but Max is a proud guy and probably refuses to take money from her. I reached into my pockets for my keys, and fiddled with them until I managed to get my key off.

"Here-- there're sheets and towels in the bathroom, the first room in the hall is Parker's. There should be food in the fridge. The security code is Jasper."

He took the key from me, saying nothing, just nodded, and clapped me on the arm before slipping it into his pocket. He didn't even ask me where my house was, and I didn't tell him, since I was sure he knew the way there as well as he knew his way to his daughter's. Or at least, I would, if I were him.

"See you tomorrow, boy," he said, nodding again, and heading off.

- - -

Her eyes were closed when I came into the room, and she looked to be wearing down again, like the pain drugs were wearing off. I dropped my bag on the floor and shut the door behind me as I went over to see if she was still awake.

"Temperance?" Her eyes fluttered open, cloudy with tiredness and pain.

"Hi."

"I just saw your dad, I gave him the key to my place so he could get some sleep." I sat down, gingerly, on the bed beside her, took her hand in mine. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired, nauseous, like I could drink a small lake of water, and debating which hurts more, the fracture, the plate, the puncture, or the incision."

"Well, in the morning you can draw up a list of all of the various sensations, and you can write a paper on it when you get home." She half-smiled, but I could see her brain working over whether there was some anthropological angle there.

"What's in the bag?"

"A change of clothes. I figured they wouldn't want me sitting around in their sterile environment in crusted clothes." She nodded and jerked her head at the bathroom.

"Feel free." I squeezed her hand, not sure if it would be pushing it to much to kiss her again, so I didn't. When I'd changed and come back out, her eyes were closed again, her breathing half-deepened, as if she were on her way to sleep. She turned at the noise, then, and exhaled heavily when she leant too much on her shoulder.

"Hey, you, no squirming."

"I can't get comfortable," she complained. No wonder-- the few times I'd seen her sleep on her couch, she usually slept on the side that was now hurt.

"Want some more pillows?" She shook her head.

"I don't think so." She paused, looked at me hesitantly. "Will you... come sit with me?"

I lowered the side bar on the bed and stretched out next to her, turning so her good side was pulled up against me, lightly. She sighed, and relaxed a little into me, then shifted a bit until she'd slid down in the bed, her head resting against my chest.

"Thanks, Booth," she mumbled, then closed her eyes again.

"Anytime, Bones, anytime."

- - -

When I stopped in my rounds later that night to check on her, that agent was lying in the bed next to her, positioned so she could lie on top of him and relieve some of the pressure on her shoulder. He had one arm drawn across her side, the other hand cradling her head to his chest. His eyes snapped open when I stepped into the room, his body tensed to do ... something ... until he saw it was just me.

"I'm just going to check the monitors," I whispered, and he nodded, not moving from where he held her, watching me like a hawk the whole time I made notes on her chart and re-checked the IVs.

"Goodnight," I whispered, and he nodded as I left. I doubted he'd get any sleep at all if he was going to wake up like that every time someone came near her, but perhaps that was what he and she both needed. It's funny-- I've been a nurse for ten years now, and it's always the ones who don't sleep worth a damn while their loved ones were here who looked best when the patients went home-- the patients, too, as if they were aware, somehow, of the watchfulness over them as they lay sleeping.


	7. Author's Note

Author's Note

**Author's Note**

I wanted to thanks everyone for their kind and generous reviews of this piece. I am definitely going to finish this, but things are getting busy at work and at home. I do have some half-chapters written, but between being slightly more inspired to work on some other shorter pieces instead, and being busy at work the rest of the time (pesky rent obligations, bah), it may be a bit before I post another chapter. Never fear, though. I will update.

I've been so pleased and delighted by all your reactions. I wrote these for my own pleasure, and have been having great fun doing so. That you're enjoying them, too, makes it all the more worthwhile.

So, thank you again, and I'll be back with something more on this in the next two weeks or so!

BLC


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